


Stirred

by Island_of_Reil



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon Era, Masturbation, Other, Sounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 06:38:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6363448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean steals one of Levi’s fancy new tea stirrers for private fun and games. You’re probably thinking he sticks it up his ass. He doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stirred

Taking over the government has brought the Survey Corps a lot of little benefits, as well as a lot of big ones. Nicer uniforms and boots. More and thicker blankets on chilly nights. Better pay, which makes for better party nights. Better rations.

And better things to eat or drink those rations with. For the most part, those better things go untouched or sold off, because none of them care whether they're eating off fine porcelain plates with sterling-silver utensils or whether everything's made of cheap metal.

But there are a few exceptions, like the collection of long, slender, colorful glass tea stirrers that once belonged to Rod Reiss’s late wife. It now belongs to Captain Levi, and it’s locked in a tiny display cabinet in an out-of-the-way part of the mess hall. It’s not that any of the new recruits are suspected of having light fingers. It’s more that Captain Levi wants to make it clear that those stirrers are _his,_ and he didn't fucking give you permission to use them, _did_ he?

So Jean waits until a night before one of the squad’s days off, very late into that night, just after the captain has finally vacated the mess hall for his three hours of “rest.” As he delicately threads a long piece of wire into the cabinet’s lock, he wonders whether his superior officer, should he find out about this (and let’s hope not), would regret having taught his current squad how to pick locks. Especially if he were to find out _why_ Jean is picking this lock.

Before long Jean feels the tiny plate inside the mechanism shift. With his other hand he turns the handle, and the little door swings open quietly on its well-oiled hinges. And there, inside, is a small ceramic holder containing a dozen sticks of glass.

Moving slowly and gently, he takes one from the holder and turns it in his fingers. It’s about eighteen centimeters long and maybe one wide. It’s made mostly of clear glass, interspersed with little bubbles and flowers and stars in a few dozen eye-poppingly bright colors. Jean forgets what Armin says the process of making them was called; it’s a name from some old language or other that translates to “a thousand flowers.” But he remembers Armin saying that because the process involved fusing various layers of glass at very high temperatures, the result was not only very pretty but very strong.

And that’s the important thing, because if the glass were to shatter inside Jean’s dick, Captain Levi would be the least of his worries.

Jean set a kettle of water to boil as soon as he walked into the hall, and he can hear it starting to whistle now. The kettle’s just deep enough that he can plunge the stirrer nearly all the way in except for about the last few centimeters, so that his fingertips are right above the water level and the steam is stinging them. After thirty seconds he pulls the stick out, shakes off the excess water, and wraps it in a clean piece of linen. Then he grabs a clean plate, empties the rest of the boiling water over it in the sink, scrubs his hands raw, and absconds with both prizes into the little supply closet off the rear of the hall.

He’d washed his dick, too, before coming downstairs. All this attention to cleanliness makes him feel a little like the captain, but if the last thing he needs is the stirrer breaking inside him, the second-to-last thing he needs is an infection. It’s one thing to pick up something from actually having sex with another person. That’s a thing that happens. Who the hell gets VD from a stick of glass, except for some dumbass who would actually think about putting a stick of glass in his dick (who even _does_ that?) and who had to steal it in the first place. Jean thinks it’d be better to get eaten by a titan than to try to live that shit down.

He locks the closet door behind him and sets the plate down on the dusty floor with the wrapped stick on top of it. Once he’s unbuckled his straps and pushed his trousers and underwear down to his knees, he sits himself gingerly down beside the plate, and he pulls a tiny little flask of gear oil from his breast pocket. The thought comes to him: he’s actually going to do this. And that thought, combined with his nerves calming down now that he’s no longer out in the open preparing a possession of Captain Levi’s for degenerate purposes, makes his dick twitch with interest.

Jean gives himself half a dozen pumps, figuring it’ll be easiest to do this if he’s already hard. Then he unwraps the stick and lays it down on the driest section of the plate before pouring the oil over it. The few stray droplets of water on it notwithstanding, the glass seems to be lubing up just fine. With a deep breath, he rests the rounded tip against the opening in the head of his dick, and just that contact — the glass still hot from its bath, the oil warm from being against his body but much cooler than the glass — sends a throb of painful, luxuriant anticipation up his entire shaft.

He begins to insert it as slowly and gently as he can. He’s shocked that he can take the entire width of the thing so smoothly, no pain at all. But, while it doesn’t hurt, it feels _weird._ The stirrer is hard, much harder than his dick or anyone else’s dick is ever going to be, and it’s pretty much _fucking his dick,_ like his dick is a cunt. That’s weird in and of itself, apart from the sensation. He can feel the slow, wet slide of the oil inside him, too.

But, still, all of it also feels… he’s not sure _good_ is the word here. It feels _full_. _He_ feels full. A little like having to take a piss, but not entirely. So, a weird sensation, but not a bad one. His boner doesn’t seem to have any objections to it. And the stirrer isn’t even in a full centimeter yet.

He moves it slowly, slowly, sllllooooowwwwwwlllly down into his dickhole, a centimeter at a time. This gentle, patient caution doesn’t come naturally to him, nor was he trained to it, but the fear of jamming the stirrer into the wrong place and bleeding out in the supply closet (and his body being discovered, and his mom finding out not only that her little Jeanbo is dead but _how_ he died… he kills that thought before it kills his boner) keeps his hand moving slowly and deliberately. His forehead feels clammy and cool, and he realizes the apprehension is making him sweat.

Watching the stirrer disappear so slowly into his dick — seeing his dick surround it tightly, the way a cunt or asshole surrounds a dick — is hypnotizing, not least because, again, it’s just so strange. Eventually he’s aware of a faint sensation of burning deep inside, as if he’s stretching his dickhole out too much… and then it occurs to him that that’s not what’s going on. It’s just that he’s never been touched so deep before, in this part of his body, and his brain doesn’t know what to make of the feeling of hard warm glass and wet warm oil against all those membranes that he’s pretty sure were never meant to be touched like this.

The stirrer’s pretty deep in, something like ten centimeters, when the feeling of _this is weird but hot but weird but hot_ is suddenly interrupted by a very strong instinct of _that’s it, **stop**_. Maybe he’s just panicking, maybe he can take more, but better safe than sorry, right? Jean starts to ease the stick out of himself, fractionally faster than he inserted it but not much faster than that, until the tip is resting just inside the opening in the head. There’s a little pre-come mixed in with the lube. Out of nowhere the thought occurs to him: _put it back in._ Before he can have second thoughts he starts sliding it back down into his dick, millimeter by millimeter. This time he goes just slightly faster, and this time he feels a little braver and he gets it in maybe a centimeter deeper than before. Then caution takes over and he starts to draw it out again.

That’s as deep as he’ll go tonight, but on the next few times he pushes it in, he tries rocking the stirrer, wiggling it very gently against the insides of his dickhole. The weird feeling doesn’t turn totally pleasurable, the way putting something in his ass for the first time did at some point, but it feels a lot better than when he started. He lets himself float on the feeling through another two or three thrusts, if “thrust” is even the word for it… and then all of a sudden it starts to climb, and he’s panting and his heart is pounding, and he can feel the first tightening and twitching of muscles deep inside him, including around the stirrer. 

If he comes with the stirrer in his dick, will it back up his jizz, and is that going to do any damage to his insides? He whips the stick out of himself completely — no blood ( _thank God_ ) — and sets it gently down on the plate. Then he wraps his right hand around his dick and he’s jacking it for all he’s worth while he rolls his balls in his left palm. The light spilling under the closet door remains dim and distant, and he doesn’t hear any sounds at all from the mess hall, yet he gnaws on his lower lip to compress a long, obscene groan into a pitiful whine as, within a minute of beginning to jerk off, he’s shooting his load. It’s thick and heavy and doesn’t seem to want to stop until it’s running down his arm and pooling in the crease of his groin.

Jean’s head and shoulders fall back against the closet wall as he gasps for breath, eyes closed, thighs shaking a little. When his mind clears, he sits up and grimaces at the sticky, cooling mess all over himself. Fortunately there’s a clean-ish rag nearby. He takes it to the plate as well because he doesn’t want to have to explain a plate full of gear oil to anyone. He ends up wrapping the oil- and come-soaked rag in another rag before jamming the whole thing into his pocket, and with the re-wrapped glass stick in another pocket he heads back out into the dark silence of the mess hall.

He spends a long, long time washing the plate and stirrer, especially the stirrer, in the sink. His hands are burning from the heat of the water and the harshness of the soap before he’s satisfied with the cleanup job. The plate goes into the rack, and the stirrer, once dried thoroughly on a towel, goes back into the holder in the cabinet. With the finality of the lock _snick_ -ing shut, the last of the tension goes out of Jean’s body; it’s more tension than he’d realized he’d been carrying. He’ll burn the soiled rag in private some time tomorrow.

He walks up to the third floor, where Squad Levi and the senior officers all have their rooms now. The new recruits are doubled and tripled up on the first and second floors, but, like his squadmates, Jean has a room to himself these days. Perfect for sleeping in on a day off. He’s almost to his door when he spots the small, lean figure cutting through the shadows of the hallway, and his heart tries to claw its way out of his chest.

“M-morning, sir,” he stammers.

Captain Levi gives a noncommittal grunt and moves past Jean without further comment. Ah. Right. Levi is perfectly capable of taking out the MP’s Interior Squad and an army of titans before he’s had his morning tea; just don’t expect him to make any conversation until then.

Once Jean hears the captain’s footsteps begin to fade away down the stairs, he feels something bubble up inside his chest. To his horror he realizes it’s hysterical laughter. He just barely makes it into his room and shuts the door behind himself before he collapses onto his bed and laughs his ass off, face muffled in his pillow so he doesn’t wake up Armin in the room to his left or Connie in the one to his right. He’s no sooner calmed down than he imagines himself asking the captain if his tea tasted any different this morning, and then he’s off again, whole body shaking as he soaks the pillow with tears. He’s still giggling and hiccuping a little until maybe ten seconds before he finally passes out for the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt:](http://snkkink.dreamwidth.org/19979.html?thread=10391307#cmt10391307) “any male, solo, sounding.” The inspiration for Jean’s new plaything was [these lovely millefiori stirrers](https://www.etsy.com/listing/225661856/set-of-4-glass-stirrers-beautiful) on Etsy. I don’t know how good Jean’s sterilization game is here, so please don’t use this fic as a guideline if you’re going to stick anything up your urethra.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dick Tea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6430447) by [The Monster Lady (VisceraNight)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VisceraNight/pseuds/The%20Monster%20Lady)




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